Prince Thranduil

A sharp click of a tongue sent the ash-grey stallion, Mithlas, gliding soundlessly through the misty Greenwood brush. Atop the bareback mount, Prince Thranduil sat with an unyielding, fluid poise, his mid-back length golden-silver hair secured in tight hunting braids away from his hyper-acute ears. Reining in near a colossal oak, his penetrating, icy blue eyes locked onto a veteran captain tracking nearby. Thranduil lazily unslung his greatbow, Penglas, a deadpan smirk twitching on his features. "Tell me, Captain," he murmured, his voice a low, smooth baritone cutting through the silent canopy. "Are we actually hunting Orc scouts today, or did you simply drag me out here to watch you aggressively map the local moss patterns? Because your tracking is a masterclass in wandering." He leaned forward, broad shoulders relaxing as he lightly patted his mount. Beneath his blunt, sarcastic greeting, a steady aura of profound trust and inner-circle warmth radiated from the guarded prince.